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ateolf“Last night I dreamed about myself.”
“Aren’t all dreams about ourselves?”
“No, but, this wasn’t about anything else. Like, me and my father or me in elementary school or giving a speech or my dog or. . . It wasn’t about anything. It was just me.”
“What were you doing?”
“That’s the thing. I wasn’t really doing anything. I can’t explain it. It was just me everywhere. Just. . .”
“That’s weird. I could see that sort of shit from Becca, she’s a fucking narcissist. But you almost never even talk about yourself. You’re. . .”
“It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t superlative. It wasn’t about how great I am. There were no qualities. It was just. . . you know, again I’m repeating myself, but it was just me being me, existing or whatever.”
“It sounds like you were nothing.”
“But it really felt like something. I don’t know, I don’t have good words for it or anything, but at the time, in the dream, it really felt like something was there. But it was just a feeling. It wasn’t anything external, just internal, I guess.”
“Well, that’s very zen of you. You’re getting all mystical and shit.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t like that either. It didn’t feel religious or anything. It was just a dream.”
“Okay. I get it. It wasn’t like anything. It wasn’t even like a dream. You were just sleeping. Can we talk about something else now? This is getting really fucking tedious.”
“I feel like you’re missing the point.”
“What point? If you’ve got a fucking point to this, tell me the fucking point.”
“Have you ever dreamed like this? About yourself?”
“That’s not a point. You know what a point is, right?”
“Fuck off.”
“Look, I’m sorry I’m pissing you off, but I really don’t get what you’re getting at here.”
“I guess I don’t either. I just thought there was something there and I should share it with you.”
“Well, I don’t even remember my dream last night. Or. . . did it have something to do with my bicycle? You know, when we were kids. . . with the pink streamers. . . I forgot about that bike. I loved it because of those streamers and the basket, but it was really shit. The pedal would stick and I’d fall over. . . I guess. . . no, I think I dreamed about that tv show, the one about the bicycle. . . not my bike.”
“What tv show is that?”
“The one about the bike.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You used to watch it too.”
“What?”
“Fuck it. It’s just a bike. I’m dreaming and there’s a bike. There you go.”
“What happened in the dream? Or was it just the bike?”
“Oh god no. It’s not like your stupid-ass dream.”
“Fuck off.”
“Well, there was the bike and I was trying to ride it but my feet wouldn’t hit the pedals. I mean, the bike wasn’t too big, I could reach the ground. It’s just when my feet went to the pedals, they never connected”
“Were you moving? Or were you not able to move?”
“I don’t think I was able to move, but when I got off I was somewhere else. Uh. . .”
“Remember where?”
“School or work or something. I don’t know.”
“Anything happen next?”
“I don’t know. It’s weird. I think I went to the bathroom. And it was nice, like real nice, like all marble and shit and quiet and smells like roses or whatever. But then after a minute, it got all gross like that gas station around the corner from your place.”
“Oh god!”
“But. . . But I don’t remember anything after that.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, like you say, just a dream.”
“Uh huh.”
“What time is it?”
“Three.”
“When did they say they were gonna call?”
“Hm.”
“Whatever. If they call, they call.”
“Well, I think I gotta go now anyway.”
“Where you goin’?”
“I told Becca I’d help her pick out a new, uh, toaster or something.”
“Jeez. I don’t know why you still feel obligated to hang out with her.”
“You really should go easy on Becca. You know—”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Seriously. You can be such a bitch sometimes.”
“What? That what she says?”
“No. I mean, you know she never excludes you. She invited you too next month. It’s not like—”
“Who gives a shit?”
“You know, she still thinks of you as a friend.”
“Well, I don’t think of her as not a friend. I’ve been more than charitable to her. And—”
“Jesus. . .”
“Since when were you two best friends?”
“We all used to be closer.”
“We all. . . It’s not like we’re not still close.”
“Yeah. . .”
“You know I’d shoot off my arm for you.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
“Okay. I’d wipe forward for you or whatever.”
“Hahaha. I bet you do that anyway.”
“Haha. What can I say? I just do what comes natural to me.”
“Yeah. But. . . Becca could really be a friend too, you know?”
“Ugh. Okay. I get it. Just drop it now.”
“My dream. That dream. It feels like it’d be a pretty okay place to be sometimes.”
“I thought you were leaving. Not the dream again!”
“Yeah. I’ll go. But there it is. It’s just there. And I see it or sense it or whatever. And it’s just there and I feel like that’s okay.”
“Okay. Go now to Becca or your dream or wherever the hell you’re going.”
“But I can’t go there, it’s just there.”
“Well, go somewhere with that shit.”
“It’s just there and it’s spreading. And it’s without edges or corners or sides or form. And it’s spreading and it’s overtaking and submerging and stretching to the horizon as if it were everything or the only thing. And it’s there for me. And it’s open. And it’s speaking to me where I can’t hear but just feel. And it’s opening. And it’s here. And it’s spreading forever outward. And it’s just there. And its words which aren’t written or sounding but they’re just there. And they’re spreading. And it’s spreading.”
“Aren’t all dreams about ourselves?”
“No, but, this wasn’t about anything else. Like, me and my father or me in elementary school or giving a speech or my dog or. . . It wasn’t about anything. It was just me.”
“What were you doing?”
“That’s the thing. I wasn’t really doing anything. I can’t explain it. It was just me everywhere. Just. . .”
“That’s weird. I could see that sort of shit from Becca, she’s a fucking narcissist. But you almost never even talk about yourself. You’re. . .”
“It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t superlative. It wasn’t about how great I am. There were no qualities. It was just. . . you know, again I’m repeating myself, but it was just me being me, existing or whatever.”
“It sounds like you were nothing.”
“But it really felt like something. I don’t know, I don’t have good words for it or anything, but at the time, in the dream, it really felt like something was there. But it was just a feeling. It wasn’t anything external, just internal, I guess.”
“Well, that’s very zen of you. You’re getting all mystical and shit.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t like that either. It didn’t feel religious or anything. It was just a dream.”
“Okay. I get it. It wasn’t like anything. It wasn’t even like a dream. You were just sleeping. Can we talk about something else now? This is getting really fucking tedious.”
“I feel like you’re missing the point.”
“What point? If you’ve got a fucking point to this, tell me the fucking point.”
“Have you ever dreamed like this? About yourself?”
“That’s not a point. You know what a point is, right?”
“Fuck off.”
“Look, I’m sorry I’m pissing you off, but I really don’t get what you’re getting at here.”
“I guess I don’t either. I just thought there was something there and I should share it with you.”
“Well, I don’t even remember my dream last night. Or. . . did it have something to do with my bicycle? You know, when we were kids. . . with the pink streamers. . . I forgot about that bike. I loved it because of those streamers and the basket, but it was really shit. The pedal would stick and I’d fall over. . . I guess. . . no, I think I dreamed about that tv show, the one about the bicycle. . . not my bike.”
“What tv show is that?”
“The one about the bike.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You used to watch it too.”
“What?”
“Fuck it. It’s just a bike. I’m dreaming and there’s a bike. There you go.”
“What happened in the dream? Or was it just the bike?”
“Oh god no. It’s not like your stupid-ass dream.”
“Fuck off.”
“Well, there was the bike and I was trying to ride it but my feet wouldn’t hit the pedals. I mean, the bike wasn’t too big, I could reach the ground. It’s just when my feet went to the pedals, they never connected”
“Were you moving? Or were you not able to move?”
“I don’t think I was able to move, but when I got off I was somewhere else. Uh. . .”
“Remember where?”
“School or work or something. I don’t know.”
“Anything happen next?”
“I don’t know. It’s weird. I think I went to the bathroom. And it was nice, like real nice, like all marble and shit and quiet and smells like roses or whatever. But then after a minute, it got all gross like that gas station around the corner from your place.”
“Oh god!”
“But. . . But I don’t remember anything after that.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, like you say, just a dream.”
“Uh huh.”
“What time is it?”
“Three.”
“When did they say they were gonna call?”
“Hm.”
“Whatever. If they call, they call.”
“Well, I think I gotta go now anyway.”
“Where you goin’?”
“I told Becca I’d help her pick out a new, uh, toaster or something.”
“Jeez. I don’t know why you still feel obligated to hang out with her.”
“You really should go easy on Becca. You know—”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Seriously. You can be such a bitch sometimes.”
“What? That what she says?”
“No. I mean, you know she never excludes you. She invited you too next month. It’s not like—”
“Who gives a shit?”
“You know, she still thinks of you as a friend.”
“Well, I don’t think of her as not a friend. I’ve been more than charitable to her. And—”
“Jesus. . .”
“Since when were you two best friends?”
“We all used to be closer.”
“We all. . . It’s not like we’re not still close.”
“Yeah. . .”
“You know I’d shoot off my arm for you.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
“Okay. I’d wipe forward for you or whatever.”
“Hahaha. I bet you do that anyway.”
“Haha. What can I say? I just do what comes natural to me.”
“Yeah. But. . . Becca could really be a friend too, you know?”
“Ugh. Okay. I get it. Just drop it now.”
“My dream. That dream. It feels like it’d be a pretty okay place to be sometimes.”
“I thought you were leaving. Not the dream again!”
“Yeah. I’ll go. But there it is. It’s just there. And I see it or sense it or whatever. And it’s just there and I feel like that’s okay.”
“Okay. Go now to Becca or your dream or wherever the hell you’re going.”
“But I can’t go there, it’s just there.”
“Well, go somewhere with that shit.”
“It’s just there and it’s spreading. And it’s without edges or corners or sides or form. And it’s spreading and it’s overtaking and submerging and stretching to the horizon as if it were everything or the only thing. And it’s there for me. And it’s open. And it’s speaking to me where I can’t hear but just feel. And it’s opening. And it’s here. And it’s spreading forever outward. And it’s just there. And its words which aren’t written or sounding but they’re just there. And they’re spreading. And it’s spreading.”
